


Fractured Moonlight

by missmichellebelle



Series: Tropetember [9]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Mermaids, Romance, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red hair that twists and waves in the movement of the water, features so angular that Mickey can only identify them as alien, and a pale naked torso that disappears into a long, scaled fish tail.</p><p>It’s a fucking mermaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fractured Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> **Tropetember** is a month long event where the goal is to write a fic fulfilling a different trope/AU every day (except Sundays apparently whoops). If there is a specific trope/AU you would like to see, please [drop me an ask on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> This has been buzzing away in my head since Sunday, but I knew I needed more than 2k words to do the idea any justice. I mean, it's just under 6k, and it's still not enough. So I'm going to add this to my shelf of, "things I need to fucking revisit."
> 
> For the majority of this, Mickey refers to Ian as a "mermaid." I did this because humans in this world tend to think of mermaids more as _its_ rather than by actual genders. It's not in any way a slight against Ian. So just putting that out there.
> 
> The ending of this was originally much, much different, and I decided that what it entailed ~~was really fucking weird like wtf did I even write~~ shouldn't happen at the point when it did, so. Shelved until I revisit this. At some point.

Benjamin Thomas is one of the most powerful men in all of Chicago (hell, probably the entire northeast), and it’s common knowledge that he didn’t exactly get there through dedication and hard work. At least, that’s how the rumors go, but no one questions them. Not ever. Because sure, Thomas basically drowns in the expanse of his own wealth, but his power doesn’t come from that (not entirely). Benjamin Thomas is powerful because people are afraid of him—fucking _terrified_. His name is enough to strike fear into some people.

You fuck with good ol’ Ben, and that’s it. Any life you knew up until that point is gone, and probably any life you would have known afterwards.

He wields fear with the experience of someone used to it—the kind of mastery that only comes from those who have clawed their way, tooth and nail, to hell and back; who have seen the darkest, most twisted parts of human society and made it out alive somehow. And, as rumors go, Benjamin Thomas is no stranger to the shadowy underbelly of Chicago. That he has plenty of experience slithering through it, hands as dirty as the rest of them.

But he’s beyond that now. He’s got people for that now, people that do all of his dirty work that keeps his hierarchy in place. Some of them are stupid enough to volunteer, but most of them? Picked at random. Just harmless, innocent civilians that Thomas may as well pick out of a hat. Who have suits show up at their work, at their home, and all they have to say is, “Benjamin Thomas has requested your presence.” And that’s it. It doesn’t matter if it’s blackmail, or death threats, or whatever else he might have on someone—they go because of the fear, for their own self preservation.

The hard truth is that if Benjamin Thomas wants something, or someone, he gets it. That’s just how it works.

That’s definitely how it works for Mickey. That’s the only reason he’s standing in this massive ass entry hall, trying to keep his composure. He’s tough, can look down the barrel of a gun without flinching, but that doesn’t mean he wants to fucking _die_. And standing by himself in a big empty room is somehow the equivalent of that, just knowing that Benjamin fucking Thomas is the reason that he’s there.

Mickey would never be here by choice. He got _out_. He worked his fucking ass off and got out of the South Side, got a job despite his lack of education, got a fucking _boyfriend_ despite how fucked up he is, and went as straight as he could with the fucking record he’s trailing behind him like a dark, bloody smear.

One that no doubt led Benjamin Thomas right to his fucking doorstep.

Leaving Mickey to wonder why, and for what. What is he going to be made to do? Who is he going to have to become again to do it?

Finally, he’s led wordlessly into an adjoining room, his innards coiling up like snakes in anxious anticipation. But once he’s through the door, he finds himself coming to an abrupt halt—the far wall has been entirely replaced by what is possibly the biggest fucking fish tank that Mickey has ever seen, casting the entire room in a haunting blue glow. It reminds Mickey of those exhibits at aquariums, like a polar bear or an octopus or some shit is just going to swim casually by.

It’s the kind of thing only Benjamin Thomas would, and could, flaunt.

“Wait here,” he’s told, and then he’s alone. The servant or whatever he was that led Mickey in leaves through the same door they entered, and it shuts and locks with finality, sealing Mickey in the room. There are two other doors on the walls adjacent to the fish tank, and Mickey knows his fate lies behind one of them.

But until they open, he’s trapped in this room, that seems void of anything but a few chairs and the seemingly empty tank. Almost like this room exists solely for the fish tank, which is fucking _weird_ , although it does make Mickey wonder what’s in the fucking thing.

Probably sharks. If this is where Thomas likes to make people wait, he probably likes to remind them how dangerous he is. A tank of sharks is definitely a way of doing that.

He’s walking closer to it, feeling drawn by the glow, eyes searching the water for signs of… Anything. If this whole display is supposed to be intimidating, it’s falling flat as shit. There are some plants, and some rocks, like it really is just an overgrown fish tank—Mickey’s surprised there isn’t a stupid fucking castle in there, too. But nothing living.

Mickey puts his hand on the glass, and then taps his finger against the surface, like maybe he’ll draw the creatures out.

 _Tap tap tap_.

He’s not really expecting it to work, so when there’s a flash of movement at the corner of his eye, Mickey’s a little surprised. This is the part where whatever is hiding from him is a little bitch, and Mickey chases the little glimpses around the tank because apparently this thing takes after its daddy and likes to be mysterious and enigmatic as fuck. Mickey’s not really a fan of games.

But there isn’t one. There’s no chase, no hide-and-seek. Mickey hardly turns his head when he finds himself staring into bright, green eyes.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” he exclaims, stumbling backwards, eyes widening. His mind tries to convince him that it was just his reflection, but Mickey knows he has _blue_ eyes, he’s not a fucking idiot, and besides… Hard to believe that when he’s staring straight at the thing that looked him in the eye.

Red hair that twists and waves in the movement of the water, features so angular that Mickey can only identify them as _alien_ , and a pale naked torso that disappears into a long, scaled fish tail.

It’s a fucking mermaid. Mickey stares at it in shock, brain trying to come to terms with what the fuck he’s seeing.

They exist. It’s not like he didn’t know. Doesn’t mean he’s ever fucking _seen_ one. They’re rare, either because there aren’t many of them or because the ocean is too big that human’s can’t find their hiding places. Some of them were captured for science. Some of them were captured as collectibles.

When mermaid scales were determined more valuable than diamonds, people started poaching them.

So this isn’t a room to threaten people. It’s a room to flaunt just how powerful Benjamin Thomas is. So powerful that he has his very own mermaid on display.

It’s staring at him, and Mickey has a hard time looking at it but an even harder time looking away. It has fins instead of ears, delicate whispy things with webbing. Where his skin fades into his scales, they’re a softy, minty green, and they darken in an ombre to an emerald green at the bottom, but they all still manage to look _silver_ and iridescent somehow.

It’s probably the most beautiful thing that Mickey has ever seen with his own fucking eyes.

The look on its face is neutrally blank as it regards him, but its eyes still manage to feel piercing—like its looking straight into Mickey’s head somehow. Before he realizes what he’s doing, Mickey is walking back towards the glass, and the only explanation he has for it is the sweet, tinkling sound of bells he suddenly hears.

The mermaid puts its hand against the glass, and when Mickey glances at it—glances away from the mermaids endless eyes—the sound stops. Mickey feels a shudder ripple over his entire body, and he glances away with a scoff and a rub of his nose.

If the mermaid expects Mickey to put his hand on the glass, it can go fuck itself.

“How peculiar.” The voice is friendly, and polite, and it still sends a shiver of fear up Mickey’s spine. He’d been so preoccupied by the bells (and where the fuck had those come from anyway?) that he hadn’t heard any doors open. Mickey snaps to attention then, easier now that he hasn’t been looking at the mermaid, and comes face-to-face with Benjamin Thomas.

He’s tall and imposing in his sleek, dark suit, with his slicked back hair and his dark eyes. The sight of him makes Mickey’s skin crawl.

“Curtis usually doesn’t show himself to strangers,” Thomas comments, and then turns his attention to the aquarium. “Do you, Curtis?” There’s the noise of displaced water, and Mickey turns his head just in time to see the long, elegant fins of the mermaid’s tail disappear out of sight. “Don’t mind him. He’s not fond of people.”

 _Him_. Mickey hadn’t really thought about it that way. Enough mermaids haven’t been discovered and examined yet that humans don’t know whether to consider them an exotic animal species, or something just as aware as a human is. They’re always referred to as _its_ , whether they have tits or not, but… _Him_.

Mickey guesses he was a him, huh.

“For future reference, don’t look,” Thomas advises him. “Mermaids tend to have ill effects on those who stare.” And then his hand is pressing on Mickey’s back, urging him forward. “Mickey Milkovich, is it? I hear you might have some experience in a field I very much need assistance in.”

He leads Mickey from the room, and it feels like dragging himself through three feet of wet sand. Not because he’s dreading what waits for him on the other side of the door (although he is), but because he doesn’t want to move away from the tank.

Mickey throws one last glance over his shoulder, and sees wavy tufts of red hair over the edge of a rock, like a living flame underwater.

*

Mickey nearly shits himself when he finds out the only thing Thomas wants him for is drug running. It’s still Mickey operating under the law, with the ever present threat of fucking up his life or possibly getting a hit ordered on him by his employer, but… It could be worse. It could be so much fucking worse.

Benjamin Thomas (who had asked Mickey to call him _Ben_ , like they’re fucking friends or something) apparently likes to keep his business relationships “close and personal.” Which is basically business talk for, “I don’t fucking trust you.” And the best way to keep someone loyal to you is to constantly remind them who they’re working for, and what’s at stake.

Which puts Mickey back in the fucking mermaid room not even a week later.

He eyes the empty tank warily, knowing that it’s not really empty. That it just looks that way. That in there somewhere is that mermaid, and it ( _he’s_ ) probably watching Mickey from his little hidy hole.

Mickey hates it when someone can see him and he can’t see them. He frowns at the glass, and finds that he’s moved closer to it.

Apparently that’ll just happen to him when he’s in this room. The tank will draw him closer, every time. Mickey wonders if it’s the tank itself, or the creature living inside of it.

“Hey,” Mickey calls in annoyance, his voice strangely loud in the otherwise quiet room. He taps on the glass again, three times in quick succession.

 _Tap tap tap_.

And it’s like that’s all it takes for the mermaid to come out of hiding. For him to swim into view. Mickey remembers what Thomas said about looking at it, but it’s too late—Mickey’s already looking. There are glimmers all over his skin, like sparkly freckles, except that’s not what they are. They’re scales, separated and sprinkled over his body. Mickey looks at them to avoid looking at the mermaid’s eyes again, but his path draws him up the mermaid’s neck, where his attention is momentarily distracted by the way segments of skin seem to flare away and retract in a steady rhythm.

 _Gills_ , Mickey’s mind supplies, but the sight of them on what would otherwise be a human neck makes his stomach turn unpleasantly. It’s so fucking unnatural that he has to look away, look straight into the mermaid’s eyes, only briefly notices the tiny scales that are flecked around them and over his cheeks and nose. Just like freckles.

His face is more than just blank today. He watches Mickey with a childlike curiosity, head tipped slightly to the side. Not that Mickey can really tell. Not that Mickey can really see anything past depths of green. He feels like he’s falling into them, further and further and further. Like he’s going deeper and deeper, too deep. So deep that he’ll never be able to come out again. So deep that he’s _drowning_.

Mickey sucks in air, so fast that he nearly chokes on it, blinks away as he leans over and grasps his knees, coughing and beating on his chest. What the fuck was _that?_ Is that what Thomas had meant?

When Mickey gets a hold on his lungs, he looks back at the mermaid, who’s still regarding him with curiosity.

“Could you not fucking do that?” Mickey asks him, like he can hear. Can mermaids hear? It’s not like they really have _ears_. The mermaid blinks, head tilted to the side, and Mickey gestures to his face. “The eye thing,” he explains.

He doesn’t even realize he was hearing the bells until they stop, and he can suck in air more easily all of a sudden, like there isn’t a vice on his fucking lungs. When he finally stands up again, the mermaid has a small, unsure smile on his lips that punches Mickey in the gut and nearly has him doubled over again.

Not just because he can’t stop looking at it, but because the mermaid seems to have understood what Mickey wanted and _did_ it.

“You are something else, aren’t you?” Mickey finds himself murmuring, which is a stupid fucking thing to do, because _fucking obviously_ he is. The mermaid’s smile becomes a little more sure, and he presses his hand to the glass again. He has thin, translucent webbing between his fingers that gives Mickey goosebumps in the worst way. “Yeah, I’m still not fucking doing that.”

After a few moments, the mermaid seems to get it, and while he pulls his hand away, his smile just gets bigger.

“So Curtis, huh?” Mickey asks, regarding the mermaid from head to… Well, fin, he supposes. Mickey wrinkles his nose. “Not sure how much I like that name, Tails. But I doubt it’s one you picked out, huh?” Mickey bites his lower lip. “You’re basically just an oversized goldfish, right?”

Mickey isn’t fetched by Thomas himself this time, and so as Mickey is led from the room, the mermaid remains, watching him go with his hand pressed to the fucking glass again.

Rolling his eyes, Mickey brushes his thumb against the corner of his mouth and fights a smile. Fucking fish.

*

It’s really fucking difficult to have a conversation with someone who _can’t fucking hear you_.

Mickey doesn’t know why he tries. Doesn’t know why he goes straight to the glass as soon as he’s left alone and taps his finger against it.

 _Tap tap tap_.

He doesn’t know why the mermaid always comes when he calls, and Mickey doesn’t know why he fucking bothers calling him. Because it’s not like they can talk to each other. It’s not like Mickey even likes talking to people, or mermaids, or whatever, _fuck_.

He just… He _needs_ to. All week, he’s felt distracted, and anxious, and it has nothing to do with the fucking drug run he had to do ( _did_ , that’s why he’s there, he did the first one, it’s time to move on). Which would be normal, if Mickey were the type of person who ever really felt nervous about that kind of shit. But he’s _not_.

No, his attention drifted and his mind would blank for minutes at a time. Mickey Milkovich is not spacey, but anyone he’d met in the past week would probably say otherwise.

The thing is that Mickey can explain it, but he really wishes he couldn’t. He really wishes that he wasn't drawn away by the sound of bells that only he could hear, by the thick, overpowering smell of saltwater and brine, by the phantom touch of sea foam. Mickey’s never even _been_ to the fucking ocean.

Thinking of it has him scowling at the mermaid’s smiling face, and he watches the smile falter and the expression pinch into one of confusion.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” Mickey bites, glaring at the glass, and the open hostility on his face makes the confusion on the mermaid’s face turn into something equally defensive and hurt. “Huh?” Mickey’s voice gets louder, and he taps his head pointedly, trying to get the message across the physical and whatever mental barriers exist between them. “The _fuck_ did you do?”

And as the mermaid shrinks back, all Mickey can think about are Thomas’s words. _Ill effects_.

He knows fuck all about mermaids, but he knows that whatever the fuck is happening to him is this fish’s fault. Mickey growls in frustration and bangs his fist against the glass, the mermaid swimming back considerably at that, and Mickey seethes out a breath and presses his forehead to the cool surface of the glass.

He should just leave it alone. Next time he comes in, he won’t call the mermaid. Won’t look at it. Won’t talk to it. He won’t even fucking _think_ of it. The sooner he gets it out of his head completely, the better.

Mickey feels a sudden warmth that he can’t explain—a phantom touch, like a hand, gliding up and down his back in an almost soothing gesture, and when Mickey opens his eyes, it’s to green voids that immediately try to suck Mickey in. The mermaid has his own forehead pressed against the glass, right where Mickey’s is, staring so intently that Mickey feels that vice in his chest again—feels like he can’t breathe.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he jerks away, nearly tripping over his uncooperative feet, and the mermaid shrinks back in confusion again. “Fucking stop with the… Whatever the fuck it is you’re doing,” Mickey hisses, throwing pointed, angry looks at the tank. He got into his head. Mickey doesn’t know _how_ , but he did.

The mermaid watches him, and then presses his open palm to the glass again, and Mickey can feel the invitation like a song in his bones. Like he can’t fight it.

But Mickey does. He has enough fucking people in his life telling him what he needs to do, he doesn’t need to add a fucking _fish_ to that list.

So Mickey flips him off, a gesture that seems to completely mystify the mermaid.

“Fuck you,” Mickey says with conviction, just before the door opens.

*

He’s not going to do it.

He’s not.

Mickey stands in the furthest corner of the room, arms crossed, foot tapping, and keeps his eyes firmly away from the blue-glow of the tank.

He’s not going over there.

He’s not tapping on the glass.

He’s not.

This ends here, this ends now, and some fucking fairy tale creature is going to stop dictating his life.

Mickey wishes he could smoke in there. It would probably be easier to fight one addiction if he could combat the withdrawal with another. Because that’s what it fucking feels like. It’s a detox. Like he has to let the mermaid’s freaky shit leak out of his pores in this agonizingly horrible process. He’s twitchy and grumpy and irritable—well, more so than usual.

And he’s thirsty. All the time, he’s fucking thirsty, and he doesn’t get it. Drank beer, drank gatorade, drank water, and it never seems to help the dryness in his mouth, in his throat.

It’s so much worse right in that second.

Mickey’s eyes hover right at the edge of the tank, and it’s torture. The source of his addiction is _right there_. All he has to do is reach for it, and he can have it. Just one more time, really, and then he’ll stop. He’ll give it up for real, just let him have _one more fucking hit_.

His mouth is so dry he might as well have spent a week crawling through a desert, and guess what? There’s the fucking oasis. There’s his paradise. All he has to do is go for it.

He doesn’t realize how heavily he’s breathing until the sound fills his ears, and he squeezes his eyes shut, clutches at the back of the closest chair, and hopes for that door to open. Hopes for his escape to come. He just needs to get out of this fucking room in the next minute, and he’ll be fine. He’ll make it.

Except the door doesn’t open.

And Mickey’s resolve crumbles.

He’s across the room so fast that it doesn’t seem possible, tapping insistently at the glass. _Tap tap tap_. _Tap tap tap_. _Tap tap tap_.

And the mermaid comes, just like he always does, looking surprised and maybe a little guarded, like he doesn’t know what to expect.

“This is what you wanted, right?” Mickey gestures down to himself standing there. “It looks like you got it.” Because the only way Mickey is getting away from this is if he gets away from Benjamin Thomas, and that’s not going to fucking happen anytime soon. The only thing that will get him out of the kingpin’s service is _death_ , and that’s not an option Mickey is ready to fucking consider.

Even if he could get away somehow, Mickey is pretty sure the mermaid would still call to him from halfway across the fucking globe.

*

There’s not a lot of info out in the world about mermaids. Again, not enough of them. Especially not enough of them to conduct research on. Mickey’s sure there’s information out there, but he’s not about to go asking about it. Mermaids are commodities, valuable, priceless, sought after. Looking up anything about mermaids these days is basically asking for a target to get painted on his back.

He doesn’t think to bring a notepad until their fifth meeting. Mickey doesn’t know if mermaids can read English, or speak it, but he figures it’s worth a shot. Better than trying to have an entire conversation through eye contact and facial expressions (how they’ve managed this far, Mickey doesn’t know—doesn’t think about).

 _Tap tap tap_.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m back, calm down,” Mickey grumbles, glancing away, because the mermaid always looks so fucking surprised and happy for some reason. Mickey figures he doesn’t get a lot of visitors. It must be hard having any sort of social interaction when you live in a fish tank and probably don’t speak the language.

Mickey wonders if the mermaid ever shows himself to any of the other unfortunates who end up in this room, and ignores the hot spike of irrational anger he feels at the thought of it.

But Thomas had said he wasn’t fond of people.

Mickey wonders what makes him so different.

“You read?” Mickey asks, digging the notebook and pen out of his back pocket, and then rolls his eyes at himself because what does he expect the mermaid to do? Blink twice for yes?

It’s a little amusing how he stares at the pen and paper with wonder, though. The wonder of a child. Mickey can’t even remember what that’s like, for everything to be new. If things were switched, if Mickey was the one in a cage watching mermaids, would he find that wonder again? That endless well of curiosity?

He’ll probably never know.

Mickey stares at the paper and blanks on what he should write. Where the fuck does he even start? Does he need to write backwards? Does water like fuck up how wording works? _Wait, no, that’s mirrors, idiot_.

In capital letters, he writes **HI** and then presses it up against the glass.

The mermaid looks at it curiously, hands pressed to either side of the glass as he brings his face close to the letters. He looks surprised, and then thoughtful, and then concentrated, and then he twists his freaky mermaid hand back and forth in what is definitely a wave.

Mickey can’t help it—he grins.

“So I guess you can fucking read, huh? Thomas teach you that?” Mickey muses to himself, drawing the pad of paper back and flipping to a clean piece. The mermaid looks incredibly excited suddenly, watching Mickey intently, tail jerking in this weird, energetic way.

Mickey frowns at the paper, taps the pen against it, and then, not knowing what else to write, scrawls **MICKEY**.

The mermaid frowns at the word, and Mickey watches in surprise as the mermaid opens his mouth, lips twisting around the letters, the sounds, like a child learning to read. Mickey is too preoccupied with the way that bubbles stream out of his open mouth as it moves.

And then Mickey realizes that there’s nothing to indicate what the fuck a _Mickey_ is. He taps his nail against the glass to get the mermaids attention, and then gestures to the notepad, then himself. The notepad. Himself. The notepad. Himself.

Until the mermaid is pointing at the notepad, and then pressing one finger against the glass at Mickey.

Mickey nods.

And then the mermaid swims away.

Mickey watches as it disappears behind a rock, and he looks around, expecting to see Thomas standing nearby (and _fuck_ , what if Thomas had walked in while he was doing that? how the fuck would he explain this?). But the room is still empty, and Mickey lowers the pad from the glass in confusion.

What the fuck just happened?

But then the mermaid is back, still wriggling with excitement like a fish out of water (literally, that’s the only way Mickey can think to describe it), and picking at something in his hand. Mickey watches him, lips parted in confusion, eyebrow furrowed, because _the fuck_ is this mermaid even doing?

And then he turns his hand, and Mickey is surprised to see that it’s full of tiny little pebbles.

Tiny little pebbles arranged into a word.

So not only can this mermaid read, but he can spell, too. Mickey finds himself smiling as he steps closer, squinting at the word to make it out.

It takes him awhile to realize that it’s not a _word_ , but a _name_.

**IAN**

If Mickey was to guess the name of a mermaid, _Ian_ would not be the name that he’d go with. Then again, neither would _Curtis_. Mickey wonders if this was another name that was given to him by another owner at some point, but figures there’s no real way he can ask. He’ll stick to single words for now—the sentences can come later.

The mermaid—Ian—points to the letters in his hand, and then to himself, just like Mickey had, and Mickey can’t help the laugh that pops out of him.

“I got it. Ian. That’s you.” Mickey makes a show of pointing at Ian’s hand, and then at him, and nods. “I got it, thanks.”

And Mickey has never seen the mermaid look happier than in that moment, as he lets the pebbles fall out of his hand.

*

Two months into balancing his old life (his tech support job in an office downtown, his one bedroom apartment, his boyfriend Cory) and his new one (running drugs for Benjamin Thomas, sleeping in the back of vans and trucks, _Ian_ ), Thomas makes him an offer.

He likes Mickey. Likes his style. Likes his success rate. Likes his attitude. Is a little too busy with another operation that he doesn’t disclose, and is looking for some people to organize the drug runs rather than participating in them. But it’s more of a full time deal. More hours, and more time at the house, where Thomas can keep an eye on him. There’s plenty of room for Mickey to stay there, of course. Thomas has already picked out a suite that overlooks the courtyard.

And Mickey doesn’t weigh the pros and cons. Doesn’t think about it. He says yes, fed by the addiction that lives inside of him like a constantly hungry animal.

Mickey convinces himself that it’s the addiction that makes him agree. He just wants to be closer to the hit he so badly craves. A junkie wanting an endless supply.

And that’s fucking it.

That’s the only reason he’s in Ian’s room when he wasn’t summoned. There are lines, there are locked doors, there are places that would spell out the end of Mickey’s life if he so much as _breathed_ near them. But this room isn’t one of those places (and thank fucking _god_ , because Mickey’s not sure what sort of shit he would get himself into if it was). Why would Benjamin Thomas hide his prized possession away, after all?

Thomas finds him in there, anyway, before Mickey has a chance to call Ian. Mickey thinks that even if he did, Ian wouldn’t come—would know that Thomas was there, and would stay away.

Thomas seems amused as he stands next to Mickey, staring at the empty water, and starts talking without Mickey’s prompting.

“They caught him in the Atlantic, off the coast of France, about three or four years ago,” Thomas tells him, like Mickey asked or wanted to know. And maybe a part of him does. He just inclines his head a bit to show he’s listening, but doesn’t say anything. “Great condition, too. Hardly damaged. He sold at auction to a collector for… Well, details.” Thomas smiles coldly, and Mickey tries not to think too hard of the words _hardly damaged_.

What does that even fucking _mean?_

All he can think of is Ian’s smile, and it makes his throat tighten with the anger he’s holding down.

“That same collector is the one I bought him from. I’d been searching for some time for a mermaid, but none of them ever really caught my eye the way he did…” The way he says it makes Mickey’s skin crawl with something dangerous and protective, and if this fucker couldn’t have him decapitated with a snap of his fingers, Mickey would have already shoved his head through the glass.

He doesn’t think about why.

“He is beautiful, isn’t he? But remember what I said about looking too long.” And then Thomas’s phone rings, and he’s leaving the room without another word. Mickey doesn’t move a muscle until he hears the door shut, and then turns and punches one of the chairs so that he doesn’t slam his fist against the glass.

Anger is still locking up his muscles when he finally calls Ian. _Tap tap tap_. He comes slowly, hesitantly, like he knew that Thomas was there, and doesn’t trust that he won’t come back.

“It’s fine,” Mickey tries to tell him. “He’s gone.” Mickey glares at the door, and by the time he’s turned back to the tank, Ian is in front of him. He’s looking around expectantly for the pad of paper—the one that’s sitting in the bag Mickey brought with him, but doesn’t have now—and his expression turns confused when he doesn’t find it.

And all Mickey can do is stare at him. _Good condition_ , he hears in his head. _Hardly damaged_.

 _None of them ever really caught my eye the way he did_.

“The fuck did he do to you?” Mickey whispers harshly, eyebrows furrowed as he stares desperately at Ian. “The fuck did _all_ of them do to you?” His voice is louder, more venomous, and somehow Ian can tell that something’s wrong. He stares at Mickey, eyes piercing, and… Mickey looks. Lets himself fall into the depths, lets them swallow him, and it just makes the anger bigger, like it’s surrounding and consuming him.

But it’s not just anger. It’s grief, and it’s confusion. It’s the taste of blood and salt in his mouth, an insistent stinging in his eyes, the air being squeezed out of him.

Mickey feels like he’s dying.

And then Ian is putting his hand against the glance, pulling back enough that Mickey feels like he’s being led out of the abyss. Ian glances at his hand, then back at Mickey, and he’s not fucking stupid. He knows what Ian wants him to do.

Only this time, Mickey does it. Splays his open palm to match Ian’s through the glass, and when Ian lowers his forehead to the glass as well, Mickey mirrors him, nearly going cross-eyed in an attempt to continue looking at him.

There are no bells, but there’s that warmth again. Like wind or water brushing over him, spreading through him. The tightness in his chest loosens, and his muscles sag with relief, like poison being drawn from a wound, and Mickey realizes that this is the feeling he’s been craving for weeks. He didn’t even know what it was, but he wanted it. Has yearned for it since the very first moment he looked into Ian’s eyes, back when Ian was just this giant fish in a tank.

Mickey sighs out shakily, pressing closer to the glass, wishing that it wasn’t there—wishing he could fall straight through it. He tastes salt again, but it’s different somehow. Sweeter. It settles on his tongue like the aftertaste of candy. 

The warmth continues to spread through him, a low, buzzing feeling that’s weirdly soothing. Like a living blanket wrapped around every inch of him, even places like his kidney, his liver. His heart. The next breath that comes out feels like relief, like everything is gusting out of him in a single exhale.

It’s not really a feeling Mickey can equate to anything he’s ever felt before. He’s pretty sure that nothing in the _world_ feels like this, and yet somehow, it’s what he’s feeling. Right now.

His eyelids are heavy as he lifts them, and his gaze meets Ian’s, and Mickey has no idea what this is. He has no idea what Ian is doing, or how it works, or fucking _anything_ about this weird mermaid mind shit.

He thinks of those stories about mermaids. About how they call sailors to their deaths. And Mickey wonders if this is what that is.

If the soft look in Ian’s eyes that washes over him like bath water instead of drowning him is pulling Mickey into the dangerous unknown. And Mickey realizes with crushing finality that it doesn’t matter—that it’s too late.

Mickey closes his eyes under Ian’s caring, watchful gaze, and knows that wherever Ian is fucking leading him, Mickey will go.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/97202606415/fractured-moonlight)
> 
> [ **NOW BEING TURNED INTO A FULL LENGTH FIC HERE** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3714607/chapters/8223862)


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